7
The Present

Cort looked down at himself; dank dust clung thick to his dark suit and he was numbly aware for the first time of the sight he must present to onlookers. His eyes rose imperceptibly; the men with him didn't notice. The idiots had stopped paying him much attention ever since they'd taken him, beaten and roped, from his mission in Hermasillo.

In his mind, he tried to shut out the sight of flames and the frightened cries of the children he'd sheltered in that mission. He needed another vision to concentrate on.

From where he knelt on the ground, a rope still very secure around his chest and arms, he breathed in the scent of the night and the backwater town in which they would stay until morning gave them a reason to get back on the road. His former compadres were taking him back to face his past; a past for which he had prayed he'd suffered enough. But his God was obviously intent on giving him another test of his human frailties.

He tried to dredge up other images so he could find some comfort during that night. What came to him was a memory. It was of a town he'd known so well. A town so like the one he was in that when he squinted just right, it could have been the place where he'd met the first person who'd seen a better part of him.

Wootan Wells. He looked up at the stars. He was kneeling in the dirt of the main road of some town he'd not been in before, but in his mind, he was striding down the dusty street of Wootan Wells.

A soft smile on his face made Ratsy study him hard. "What you grinning at, fool preacher?" the little man said, sucking on his teeth and drawing himself up as tall as a tiny man could. Quick, mean kick to his midsection and Cort found himself rolling on the ground, balled up in agony.

"He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity. He that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword. Here is the patience and the faith of the saints," Cort muttered and closed his eyes. "So sayeth the Lord."

Just like that, he swept himself back into his past full force. He prayed that God had not just sent this Biblical passage to his mind to warn him of the judgment that had been passed on his soul for his many days of killing by the sword.

But, Lord, shall You not have mercy on this sinner? Cort prayed. Shall You not see the better side of me?

Suddenly, he shuddered and remembered the last time that particular verse from the Bible had been used as judgment against him. His eyes opened wide in the night and yet he saw her face in front of him, as clearly if he were back in the morning's light when he'd seen her last.

Cynthia.

Oh, God. No wonder I thought of that passage, he thought. Her words had haunted him for so long. Her memory still troubled him sometimes. And even years later and a lifetime removed, just the thought of her made him hungry for her despite all the vows he'd sworn to his calling since he'd last touched her.

And yet, it wasn't the end that tormented him. Not really. It was the simple and clean memory of how they'd loved each other. He'd loved her so much that he'd set out deliberately to build a life that could include her. A forbidden smile crossed his lips as he felt the weight of the plans he'd made for them and how much he'd been willing to give up, just to have her by his side forever. His groan of pain was almost a gasp of pleasure.

Cynthia.

The woman who'd set him on this course. The woman who'd made him realize he could be more than an outlaw, more than a killer. The woman who'd made him burn to be more. Made him ache to be enough for her to love.

The Past

Cort knew John Herod was waiting and it didn't matter to him. He had something more important to do just then. Herod could just wait, he thought grimly, visualizing the scowl he'd earned when he'd told Herod that he had an errand to run. Knowing that if John knew where he was going, and who he was going to see, it would have been like signing her death warrant.

When he saw Cynthia walk out the back door of her father's house, he tensed. She knew he was there; he'd thrown a rock at her window and she had opened it to find him standing within the shelter of the shed in their prim back yard.

"We need to talk," he said gruffly, steeling himself to give her the news. Planning to just tell her with no embellishment; harsh and to the point. Get it over with. And then tell her why. But knowing one look in her eyes and he was likely to waver in his conviction.

"Come inside, Cort. It's all right, really. Daddy's gone and ..."

For some reason that stung. "Yeah? Daddy's gone so you figure it's okay for you to sneak your outlaw lover inside? Sure you want to sully up those pretty sheets of yours, Cyn?"

Fingers cool on his heated skin. "What's wrong, my love?"

His eyes studied her and he tried hard to calm his racing heart. She just did things to him; to be with her was like going someplace he expected to be forbidden to him. She was all the things he now wanted in life: stability, love, a future. Would she really see him as the one man who could bring happiness to her life?

"Okay. Let's go inside. I want to see where you sleep," he said softly, his fingers in her hair drawing her in against him. He caught the whiff of lilacs that seemed to be a part of his understanding of her. His mouth tasted the sweetness of her breath and an instant later, he felt the immensity of his craving for her. He kissed her hard yet with such yearning that Cynthia felt the change coming over them.

Inside her bedroom, he took in the prim white walls and sheets with tiny flowers on them. A woman's touch, he thought. He ached for her but first he had to tell her.

"Herod's back," he said, his eyes challenging her. She simply stared into him, waiting for what this meant. "One more trip. That's all."

Her head dropped and she looked down at the floor. "Please don't go, Cort. Don't go back to that life."

"I never left that life, Cyn."

"Then leave it now." Her chin up, she challenged him with the look of steel he'd always found so arousing about her. This woman of refinement and sensitivity; who would have thought she could be so unafraid? The combination was deadly.

"This is who I am, Cyn. Thought you understood. But this will be it, I swear. I'm getting out. This trip will set me up so I can come back here and ... What is it?"

"You're so much more than this, Cort," she whispered, coming close to him, looking in his eyes and hoping he'd hear her. "You're a good man. You're smart and courageous and ... and so many wonderful things. But you became an outlaw because you never saw another way. You do now, don't you? You want me, you want a better life. This could be your one chance to have that life. Show me, Cort. Show me you want me in that life. Because I'll live it with you. I swear I love you, Cort, and damn everything else. Stay here and make a life with me."

"I will, Cyn. But first I need a stake. I won't ask you to marry me if I can't give you the life I know you want. You want the good things in life and for the first time in my life, I'm willing to get them for a woman. For you."

"Oh, Cort. Love is all we need. Nothing else matters and we ..." 

He smiled at her, and felt a sudden rush of tenderness. "Love isn't going to get you pretty dresses. It's not going to get us a home and a ranch somewhere where we can build a life. It's not going to clothe our babies. We need money for that and there's only one way I can get enough to set us up right."

But there was another reason he knew he was going. He needed a definite ending to his relationship with Herod. Cort had already run through the scenario in his mind; this was his opportunity. It would be just the two of them out there on that trail. In the course of those weeks, he knew he'd have the time to convince John Herod of the truth: Cort had reached the end. He'd be no good to Herod anymore because he'd lost the taste for killing and all the other mayhem he created at Herod's bidding. Herod was a realist, Cort thought to himself; he might not like it but he would see it.

Cort snapped back into the here and now as Cynthia told him, "Starting our life based on ill-gotten gains ... Cort, I will never consider building a life with you until you give up the life you're leading now. I would never consider bringing children into this world with a man I could not respect. Until you're willing to make something decent of yourself, and as much as it pains me, we have no future together."

His eyes hardened and lost their light; Cynthia stepped back in an involuntary reaction. "Make something decent of myself?" he growled to her, his voice a latent menace and his body tensing perceptively.

"You're better than this. You could have the world, Cort. Set the good man inside you free, my love, and stop taking the easy way out." Cynthia's words were delivered softly; they carried a hidden message.

"And if I go with Herod? If I say this is the last time? Are you telling me you won't believe me?" He reached out and pulled her closer to him, gripping her arm. "Are you telling me if I go you won't want me any longer?"

Breathless in the face of his intensity and knowing their future hinged here, Cynthia whispered, "No, Cort. I'll never stop loving you, I know that now. But I would never marry the man you are now. I could never."

"The man I am now? He seems to suit when he beds you," he said, his voice dropping to a rough harshness.

"Don't be this way, Cort. I love you. You know I do." Cynthia looked into his eyes and for the first time since she'd known him, she saw anger and hardness, the desperation and the fear he held. Desperate for her love; afraid he might lose this chance at a happy life.

She knew he was going with Herod, that nothing she would say would keep him from the course he'd set for himself. And she knew that when he came back, whatever else happened, she'd still love him. Whatever might happen at that point, whether he would indeed leave his evil life behind or would break her heart by remaining the kind of man who could never give her the security she would need in order to build a life with him... well, she thought, those were going to be bridges she'd have to cross when the time came. And if he was leaving, she wanted him leaving with peace of mind and a sincere desire to follow through on his plans. One last trip, he'd promised; she had to believe in him.

"Cort, my love, please be careful while you're gone from me. And know that you're taking my heart with you on your travels, so be careful with it as well." She managed a brave smile and felt her heart swell at the look of relief that overtook Cort's face.

His lips came to hers soft and searching; they probed for the truth in her heart and found confirmation. In a haze, he began muttering words to her; telling her of his dreams for them, of his devotion, of his lust, of how he would miss her, of how he'd dream each night that he was with her, of how he'd spend his time longing for her touch.

All the while, he was pressing against her body, pushing her backwards toward her bed while his mouth paused to kiss along her neck and his hands kneaded the skin beneath her chaste dress.

Cynthia felt almost overwhelmed by him. His passion swept over her and she closed her eyes as she felt her body react to his. When he stopped moving them across the room, she sighed to feel his hands at her buttons. Opening her eyes, she looked deep into his and saw the depth of his emotion. It would never be the same between them again, she thought, for now they both knew they were already planning for a future together.

She also read in him one thing so clearly that it filled her with joy. A promise: he would give up the only life he'd ever known for her.

He undressed her with something approaching reverence. She undressed him with something surpassing rapture. And when they lay together, their movements were slow and careful. Whispered words between them, sighs they breathed into each other, making love as if it were a sacred pact between them.

The sun shone through the lace curtains and a slight breeze ruffled the delicate fabric, blowing softly on the two naked bodies, cool air to ease their heat. His glistening torso writhed above her slender paleness, rising and falling like a ship plowing its furrow, deep into the white crested wave. Her limbs gripped his strength, her fingers discovered again the wonder of his flesh, the knowledge that could break or save her. It was as if they had changed roles: his touch was gentle and soft, smoothing over her with heartbreaking tenderness, hers was demanding and rough as she dug her nails into his back or worked his powerful muscles in her passion.

They mewed and moaned half-uttered comments and wishes, gasping and sighing, unable to comprehend the way they felt. It was more than the sensation of their bodies that drove them- it was sheer emotion sweeping them along. For Cort it was as if he had awakened and could see the world through new eyes, like a child learning how to walk. Every certainty he had ever had was gone, replaced by other truths. He could belong with decent people and be a man whom others would respect - not because he could outshoot them, but because of what he was inside.

Cynthia gazed at him as he thrust down again, watching his eyes flicker and close, his tongue resting on his lip as he panted in effort. He was magnificent, quite magnificent, like a wild, untamed animal. But even as she threw her head back and rose to her climax, even as he groaned and spent himself in powerful shudders, an image suddenly passed through her mind: Cort sitting around Aunt Lydia's dinner table and listening to the inconsequential chatter of her cousins.

As he lay helpless, whispering his love to her as she stroked his damp locks, Cynthia felt the first touch of dread at what the future might bring. Would she be forced to ostracize herself from her family? How else would they live- she would not let them make a laughing stock of him- because they would:

"And what, Mr. Cort, do you think of the situation in Europe? Will there be war?"

"Have you read Mr. Dickens' latest novel? We heard him speak on his last tour.."

"What business is your father in?"

The thought of his inability to handle them with anything other than anger made her blood run cold.

And what would she do as the wife of a...what would she be? A rancher's wife? Expected to keep house and cook and clean on some isolated homestead? Cynthia had no idea how to cook and had never done any housework in her life. She imagined that Cort would not realize that, would expect her to follow some notion he had that a man must provide and a woman must spend her days in the kitchen with several babies round her legs. It was not the life she had envisioned for herself.

But she loved him! Wasn't that enough? Couldn't their love keep them safe whatever life threw at them? Looking down at his sleeping form, Cynthia had the first few doubts. She buried them deep, recalled his tender lovemaking and fell asleep to dream uneasily.

Cort rose from Cynthia's bed and watched her sleep for long minutes as outside, the sun was beginning its slow descent to the horizon. Looking around her room to capture the image so he could call it up in the coming nights before he saw her again, his eyes fell on her dressing table. His fingers caressed some of the items there: her brush, the silver hand mirror, several bottles of scented water. He picked up a small linen handkerchief embroidered with a purple flower. Raising it to his face, he smelled lilacs. With a glance and a half-smile over his shoulder at Cynthia's peaceful face, he carefully tucked the handkerchief in his vest pocket.

As he walked away, he felt like a different person. She believes I'm a good man, he thought; up to me to prove she ain't wrong.

The Present

"Hey, preacher. Git yer ass up now," Ratsy grated, yanking on the rope that kept Cort's wrists bound tightly together. Ratsy had taken great care with those bindings; he knew exactly what Cort's hands could do if they were free and he intended to make sure that never happened. He dragged on Cort until the stunned preacher found his knees and then stumbled to his feet.

Cort's mind snapped back to where he was and he realized with a start that the last vestiges of the night were giving way to the light of dawn.

Ratsy yanked on the rope and forced him up to the hitching post where he tied him securely. Too securely.

"Ratsy, how about a little slack there? I'm going to lose my fingers at this rate," Cort asked softly, wiggling his purpling fingers so the stupid tyrant couldn't miss the implication.

After loosening the bindings just enough to let the blood flow into Cort's hands, Ratsy rambled up the nearby steps and into the saloon. Cort's stomach rumbled angrily at him as it intercepted the odor of breakfast cooking inside.

It surprised him. He hadn't even thought about food since Ratsy and six more of Herod's men had burst in on him yesterday while he'd been leading his flock in worship. He tried to remember what his sermon had been that morning but it was no use. He couldn't seem to remember anything so well his shock when the men came into the sanctuary of his church.

They'd come in with guns drawn and aimed at him, ordered him to drop to his knees and put his hands on the top of his head. And when he hadn't moved quickly enough, they'd done the one thing he'd never forgive them for. They'd let loose a barrage of bullets, shooting up into the roof and into his precious statue of the Virgin Mary in her place of honor, near the altar.

How the children had screamed. The nuns had thrown their bodies over as many as they could to protect them. He dropped instantly to his knees at the first shot, his hands flew to his head, but his anger at their unspeakably vile defilement of the church had been plain in the fierce, defiant stare he'd leveled at Ratsy.

"Madre de Dios, perdone a este criado pobre," he muttered softly at the memory and turned to watch the first finger of dawn crest over the mesa. "Lord, wilt Thou have Thy vengeance for this sacrilege in this life or the next? Wilt I be the hand of God to punish these heathens or wilt Thou have me bear this suffering in Your name?"

Sacrilege.

The word echoed in his mind. He knew a few things about sacrilege. One would always blacken his soul no matter how many novenas he sent to his Lord, no matter how many children's souls he saved, no matter how often he wished he could live that moment over.

It was a moment in which weakness had led him to take the easy way out. It was always his way, he damned himself. Cynthia had known that about him; she'd been the person who wouldn't let him turn from what he'd done.

The Past

On the trail to Nogales with John Herod, Cort worked hard to ease the tension between them. He wanted Herod to decide for himself that he no longer wanted in Cort in his gang. After so many years together, they knew each other well. He understood that Herod was first and foremost a realist, and figured that once convinced his protégé had lost his taste for killing, he'd lose interest in him. Cort's ability to kill, his skill at dealing death with the requisite swiftness and neatness made him a thing of rare value to Herod. But there was more to it than that...there was the unreasonableness that came with sentiment.

For Cort was the son Herod didn't have; a boy he'd raised to follow in his footsteps; a boy he'd shaped to be the man he instinctively knew Cort was capable of being. He had handpicked him to be the inheritor of his empire, such as it was. And he wouldn't like the idea of his gift being thrown back in his teeth.

After their fourth night together on the trail, Herod had a clear idea of what Cort wanted...just as he knew that Cynthia Pierce was the reason he wanted out. And Herod was just as determined that Cort would not leave him. His eyes narrowed coldly. He'd take care of Cynthia Pierce later. First, he had to keep the killer alive inside his protégé. 

On the surface, things appeared to be as they always had been. Herod listened with benign but feigned interest while Cort drawled on and on about seeking the good life, twisting Herod's words about what it meant to be a man. His eyes narrowed and he studied Cort across the campfire, where he was settled into his bedroll. Herod couldn't stop a smile; he knew the boy so well. His eyes suddenly swept over him and with a start, he reminded himself that Cort hadn't been a boy in a long time. He was a man now; he had a man's strong desire to build his own life and go his own way. Not that it wasn't something Herod couldn't appreciate, since he'd been much the same way at that age.

But that didn't mean he would let Cort go. Not this way, at least. Not by turning his back on the life Herod had delivered to him on a silver platter, the ungrateful pup. I'll never let him get away, Herod thought; And he will learn that I am the last person he should ever turn his back on.

The Present

Cort tried licking his lips but the merciless sun beating down on his uncovered head had robbed him of about all the moisture he had in his body. His eyes closed against the assault of the blazing sky. He clutched the saddle horn in front of him; his horse's reins were being handled by one of his captors. When the man halted his horse, Cort wasn't expecting it and nearly lost his balance. They dragged him from the saddle and his legs buckled beneath him. The men found the sight of Cort floundering in the dirt hilarious.

Dredging down deep within, Cort found dignity and patience. He'd need them both for his ordeal, he knew...and he'd be damned if they'd break him. Through sheer force of will, he rose to his feet and followed them to the side of a creek where they rested in the shade cast by an outcropping of boulders. His captors followed him with their eyes, grinning fatuously, taking pleasure in his fall from grace. Not one had addressed him directly since his capture unless it was to torment or ridicule. There was a time when they would never have dared; there was a time when he was feared by all of these men. It appeared, thought Cort wryly, that time was over.

The Past

Nogales looked the same but Cort was seeing it through different eyes. He stood with John Herod and watched as the soldiers unloaded the armored wagon with the words 'Wells Fargo and Company' emblazoned on the sides. The bank manager was supervising the transfer of funds; several men repeatedly walked a double line of armed soldiers, carrying the money into the bank. In and out, from the building to the armored wagon, trip after trip. Cort visualized the scene inside the bank: the great safe open, a man on his knees safely stowing the cash. He loosened the bandana at his throat, wiped sweat from his forehead, and kept watching. Waited until at last the wagon was emptied, and the soldiers mounted up. Their officer shook hands with the bank manager and, calling out an order that was indistinct from this distance, led his men down the winding street.

Cort's mare stamped restively, blowing, tossing her head. He knew how she felt; he felt the same way. Anxious to move, to stretch, to get the job over with and head home. Home to Cynthia, back to peace and the promise of the future. His fingers crept into the pocket of his vest to feel the handkerchief tucked inside. "For luck," he told himself, and still staring ahead, he said persuasively, "Never be a better time, John. Soldiers gone---still bound to be some confusion in the bank. And I ain't seen one sign of a sheriff or marshal. I say let's go now. Take them by surprise."

Herod squinted, staring down at the all but vacant street below. Cort was right. Nogales looked almost deserted. The transfer of the money to the bank's safe, the most vulnerable time, was over. And now the men in the bank would have their guard down, thinking the worst was behind them. He grunted his accord and threw a glance at Cort.

"Agreed. Let's ride."

With a surge of relief, Cort touched the mare's flanks lightly with his spurs and she all but leapt forward under him, so eager was she to move. Down off the ridge at a bounding canter, the dust cloud thick behind them until they came to the outskirts of Nogales and stopped to water the horses at a trough and fill their canteens at the pump. Best to be ready, for if all went as planned, they'd ride hard this night across the border into Mexico, before circling back into Arizona and home.

Easy. Casual. They rode into town at a sedate pace, looking like no more than two cowboys in town for a little fun, until they stopped at the hitching rail in front of the bank. Cort tied his mare loosely, looping the reins in a knot that would slip at the first tug. He went into the bank alone and stood near a table, pretending to fill out a deposit slip while his eyes went rapidly over the room, taking measure. Three men, all in shirtsleeves and eyeshades. The safe still standing wide open behind the barred counter and not an armed man in sight---no guards, none at all. He was astonished; how stupid were these people, anyway? He waited until Herod came in and gave him the sign: good to go. Cort turned away, pulled his bandana over the lower half of his face, and drew both guns. "Hands in the air!" he bellowed. "Nobody move or you're dead."

Lieutenant Robert Levering turned in the saddle and stared back down the dusty street. Something, a twitch of apprehension, was skittering up the back of his neck and making him edgy and tense. What was it, goddamn it? Trouble? He sensed it; something was wrong. Maybe it had nothing to do with the Fort Hamilton payroll, but that money was his responsibility until it was delivered safely to the commanding officer in California. He didn't like leaving it in the hands of Wells Fargo & Company...hadn't noticed any extra men or guards there at the bank. His orders from his commanding officer said he was to deposit the payroll with Wells Fargo in Nogales and rest his men for two days before moving on to California, but that didn't sit well with the lieutenant. Though he was not one to disobey orders, he had a bad feeling. Call it an omen. Levering made his decision and threw up a gauntleted hand.

"Halt! Troopers, about face. March!" As his platoon of ten men executed the order, the lieutenant rode to the front of the column and led them back toward town. He was going to mount a guard on the bank until they pulled out of town. Two shifts, four men on, four off, two to take care of the horses. Keep a constant watch until they loaded the wagon first thing in the morning and started out of town.

At the corner of Main and East, Levering halted his column. He kept his men waiting in the street just out of sight while he dismounted and strode to the doors with the gold lettering that announced that this was a Wells Fargo and Company Bank. He grasped the knob and pushed. Nothing. The door was locked. Cupping his hands to peer inside, he bent forward.

"Hurry up, goddamn your hide!" barked Herod, and he leaned threateningly over the terrified bank employee on his knees in front of the safe. The man shook and sweated, shoveled stacks of greenbacks into the saddlebag at his feet. In panicked haste and distraction, he missed several bound bundles.

"All of it!" Herod ordered when the fear-driven man at his feet tried to hand over the second bag.

In the front of the room, Cort kept his eyes moving, watching the street as well as the other employees. He was grateful there were no customers. An approaching figure dressed in dark blue caught his attention; he stared through the window then swore silently. "John."

Herod glanced over his shoulder and glared at Cort. "What now?" 

"Somebody coming."

"Goddamnit! The marshal?"

"No. The officer from the escort, looks like."

"He alone?"

Cort stepped to the window and peered out. He couldn't see the other soldiers, halted in the street just around the corner. "Don't see anyone else."

"Drop him if he gets too close."

Cort silently willed the soldier to go away as he came closer, so close that he could see the fine layer of dust powdering his uniform and the lines of worry under his eyes. He swore as the man tried the door.

"Shoot him," Herod said. "Now."

Cort leveled his gun and fired through the window. Gold-lettered glass exploded outward in Levering's face as the bullet from Cort's Remington slammed into his brain. A red mist of blood hovered in the air until the young lieutenant crumpled to the sidewalk. Townsfolk turned to stare as the gunshot shattered the quiet, their expressions first bewildered, then horrified. Beside the bank, waiting with the troop of soldiers, a fast-thinking sergeant guessed what happened and barked an order.

Nine federal soldiers dismounted and silently fanned out to cover the front and rear of the bank. Carbines trained on the doors, they waited.

As the man at the safe finished stuffing cash into his saddlebag, Herod clubbed him unconscious with his gun and threatened the others until they backed into a storeroom. They seemed unwilling to go until the reverberation of Cort's shot rent the air. After that, they were more than cooperative. He locked them in and grabbed up the two bags filled with money.

"Let's clear out."

Cort, flattened against the wall next to the door, said quietly, "The soldiers are out there now, John. I count at least ten men under cover."

"Goddammit!" swore Herod, craning his neck to peer outside. What he saw didn't make him happy. He thought a moment, threw Cort one of the bags and said, "All right then. We separate, head for the mission in Santa Ana. I'll meet you there." He grinned suddenly, his expression wolfish, feral. "Kill as many of them as you can, amigo. Send them straight to hell. On my word....go!"

He kicked the door open and burst through, gun drawn and blazing. Cort ran out behind him, vaulted the hitching rail, and caught a bullet in his upper arm. He grunted with pain, but kept going. His horse was capering, straining at the tether. Cort threw the saddlebag over his mare's neck, tugged the lead rein until it came loose in his hand and mounted, but lay flat along the mare's flanks, hidden from view and temporarily safe from the firing. Half crazed, she danced in a circle, exposing him to heavy fire. A bullet slammed into his shoulder, another one into his thigh. Other bullets flew overhead and under the mare's belly. He heard John's horse scream in pain, but the pounding hoof beats were still regular and fast. Cort dug with his spurs and his mare leapt ahead. He guided her around a corner and into the shelter of another building, safe for the moment from the hail of bullets, then lay over her neck and encouraged her into a full gallop. Blood flowed hot and thick from his shoulder and arm, blood dripped from his thigh; enough blood to weaken him and leave him light-headed. He circled up into the foothills and found the trail south, to Santa Ana. Cort didn't know if Herod made it out of town or not, and he didn't care. It was enough that he'd escaped himself.

The Present

Night in the desert. Why was it at once such a beautiful thing, with the stars above giving you the measure of the immensity of God's universe, and at the same time such a brutal experience, with the cold seeping into your bones if you didn't have a fire or a blanket to cover you?

Cort had neither that night, but he still barely felt the chill. Inside, in his mind, he was warm and loved. He was back in the past, warm in Cynthia's arms, and she was rocking him to sleep.

He had just made love to her, had made her come until she begged for mercy, but he had been both tender and cruel; and made her come again. And again. After, he had been so weak that he wondered if he had the strength to go on breathing.

They'd been in the hayloft of the livery stable. Cort knew the blacksmith took a two-hour break for lunch and siesta at mid-day, and he'd convinced Cynthia to meet him there during the time when the place would be deserted. It was the only private place he seemed able to think of where they could sneak some time for each other.

But as soon as she'd come in, the moment he'd stepped into her body and bent to kiss those sweet lips, he'd felt shame that because of him, a lady of Cynthia's class was having to stoop so low to meet her lover in a place like this.

Not that it stopped him. Or her. Their desire was so strong that it had taken a few trifling minutes and brief whispered entreaties before Cort was helping her climb the ladder into the hayloft. Hoisting her up the last few steps, his hands on her rump, they fell into the hay, rolling over and over, suppressing the desire to laugh out loud. Cynthia sat up and pulled straw from his hair then she knelt before him as he lay on one side watching her. She raised her hands to her head and loosened the pins that held her hair; it cascaded down before him.  Entranced, his hand went out to touch it as if he expected to find that it was an illusion, but his smile revealed his discovery: she was his, as unbelievable as that fact was.

"Take your clothes off, Cyn. Let me watch you," he whispered in the low growl that he saved for their most intimate moments. With a shy smile, she unbuttoned her dress, turning to him for help and arched as his hands unfastened and then parted the cloth to run a knuckle down her spine. She shrugged the garment off; he smiled to see she wore no corset - didn't need one anyways - and only her flimsy petticoat and virginal bloomers stood between him and the object of his desire. These she removed slowly, teasing him and staying just out of reach while he lunged and grunted. She put her finger to her lips to warn him, her eyes full of fun. But at last she stood naked and let him observe her, aware that from where he waited, he could see all. His eyes were hot on her body; it excited her and in response, she parted her legs a little more. With a groan he rose and kissed her sex until she pushed him away and knelt by his side.

She slowly stripped him as he lay back in the hay. Her long slim fingers unbuttoned his shirt and unhooked his belt; she crouched before him to remove his boots. Cort panted, his breath coming fast and hard. It was more erotic than the dirtiest sex to watch his beautiful lady attend him this way, but it also felt gentle, like the sweet touch of a mother.

They both smiled when she began to lower his pants down his thighs and he winced as his cock was momentarily caught in the fabric. "Hey, watch that, honey. I only got one," he grinned.

"Like it was a precious treasure, my sweet love," she whispered back.

Below they could hear the soft nickering of horses and the distant voices of passersby. Inside their nest, they felt far away from the world that slept away the hot hours of the day. On their knees they embraced, their tongues searching to taste each other in a deep kiss until Cynthia pushed Cort down. She laid her head on his thigh, her hand gentle on his sac, and bent to kiss his manhood. Cort shivered at the sensation. Once he'd thought only whores did that because they were paid to. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined fine ladies would do it to a man because they loved him, because it gave him pleasure.

He could bear it no longer. Pushing her back, he turned his body, lowering himself on her face and plunging between her legs - they delighted in each other with a desire bordering on hunger.

Cort felt her come and held her, drinking and inhaling her stronger musk. His brain sang with emotion and he could no longer hold back- he needed her too much. Pressing her into the warm sweet hay, he parted her legs and rubbed himself against her wetness, before entering and sighing as he felt her thick muscles shroud him and hold him safe. Safe. He hadn't known that he was alone until he met her. Now he would never be alone again. He had found his home, his woman- with a low murmur he sighed and came in her arms. 

The Present

The boot that kicked him back to awareness wasn't gentle by any means; but it wasn't severe enough to cause a lot of pain. With a soft grunt, he rolled on the ground and drew himself up to his knees.

"Saying a prayer there, preacher?" Ratsy chortled, his voice hoarse with sleep. "You best say a good one 'cause once Herod has you back, it'll take a hell of a prayer to save yer skin."

Ratsy looked around at the other men to see if they appreciated his wit. But they were ignoring him. Feeling like a pissed on rattlesnake and wanting to punish someone for the slight, he yanked as hard as he could on Cort's rope. Pulled him to the creek and then with a boot on the preacher's backside, he sent Cort splashing into the water's icy cold.

"Have a piss and a drink," he grinned spitefully. "It's about the last chance you'll have today. We'll make Redemption tonight."

8  

The Present

Lilacs. I must be dreaming, Cort thought. Lilacs don't grow in the desert. With a start he came back to grim reality. Sharp eyes took in the men with him. No sense or brains, he thought. Not even watching him as they rested after the first few hours of the morning's hard riding.

He gently tested the ropes around his wrist. Damn, but they were just a bit too well-knotted.

With a long sigh, he leaned into the boulder at his spine. His eyes swept over the landscape and took in the cacti that dotted the sharp hills. Heat rolled in waves along the mesa. How much longer until Redemption? What would he find there?

Ratsy had already prattled on and on about Redemption. About how John Herod had taken over the town a year earlier and had turned it into his headquarters. How the people there were so cowed by Herod and his gang that they never did anything more than ask how high when they were told to jump.

But what had given Ratsy the greatest amusement was the revelation that Cort was being brought to Redemption at Herod's orders. A gun-slinging contest. Winner take all. Well, not all, perhaps, but a haul of Herod's money up for prize.

As Ratsy ran his mouth about the contest, Cort felt a sense of dread. Had Herod set this whole contest in motion as the final punishment for his ultimate betrayal?

Cort closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the boulder. He wanted another image in his mind. Something other than the last time he'd seen Herod. Something ... anything other than that insane smile on Herod's face as he'd done the one thing that had robbed him of everything good he'd ever known in his life.

Cynthia's face swam in his vision.

And he realized why he'd imagined the smell of lilacs. It had never failed to make him smile, though it also broke his heart. It had been the lingering scent of lilacs on her skin that had stayed with him long after she had shut him out of her life.

The Past

There followed two days of hard riding, if it could be called that. In truth, weakened from loss of blood, sometimes dizzy and feverish, he was just hanging onto his mare's neck, the reins held loosely in his left hand. But Cort managed to remain conscious and sensible and he kept going, watchful for any pursuit. To his astonishment, there was none, but it could be that the soldiers had not picked up his trail, or had chosen to follow Herod. Cort circled into the low hills that led to the steeper slopes of the Sierra Madre, then followed the old miner's trail to Santa Ana, at last coming to the plains east of the mission. To sanctuary. He was not the first outlaw to seek refuge inside its old adobe walls; the padres of the Mexican missions were well known among the lawless for their kindness and discretion.

Cort rode up to the gates in the wall that enclosed the mission, and from the back of his horse, pulled the rope that hung through a hole in the masonry. Inside, a bell tolled and after an endless moment, an elderly padre appeared. He was tonsured and dressed in the drab brown of a Franciscan monk; a large wooden crucifix hung on his chest. His eyes went swiftly over Cort, took in the lathered horse, the bloody clothes, the weakened condition. "You are injured, my son?"

"Yes," Cort replied, and slid off the mare into darkness.

He awakened in a cool room just as evening was falling---he could tell by the golden light and lengthening shadows---but Cort had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been hours or days. He was naked and covered to his waist by a coarse sheet. His shoulder and arm throbbed and burned, but his leg was numb. A jolt of panic coursed through his brain: Cort raised his head and looked. It was still there. He tried wiggling his toes and saw the sheet twitch near the foot of the bed, felt the pain spear from ankle to hip. He dropped his head upon the pillow, too weak to hold it up any longer, both grateful and relieved.

It was so quiet. There was nothing, not even the cries of birds to break the silence. Cort lay and waited, watching the shadows crawl across the wall as the light faded and told himself that surely someone would be around to look in on him sooner or later. He felt no anxiety beside the growing urge to piss. He remembered the money in his saddlebag and lifted his head again, his aquamarine eyes searching the room. In the corner on a battered wooden chair lay his gun belt, the saddlebag hung over the back. His boots stood beside it; his clothes were neatly hung on pegs stuck into the adobe wall. They looked clean; he saw no bloodstains. Cort lay his head down again and closed his eyes, on the edge of sleep, chasing formless half-dreams of Cynthia.

After what seemed to be a long time, approaching footsteps roused him from his doze. The door creaked slowly open to reveal the priest who had come to the gate.

"Ah! You are awake at last. I despaired of ever seeing you thus." He came into the room, carrying a wooden bowl and plate. Cort's nose quickly picked up the scent of supper---soup or stew. There was a round loaf of bread on the plate.

He tried to ease himself into a sitting position; the padre set his burdens on the table at Cort's beside and hurried to help him.

"Fácil...bueno," he said quietly. "Take care of your leg; the bullet has been removed, but the wound is deep."

"Much obliged." Cort gritted his teeth against the searing pain. He felt drained by just this much effort and lay panting.

"You are hungry?" asked the priest, and when Cort nodded, he spread a napkin over his lap and sat beside him on the bed. "I doubt you can manage alone," he explained, when Cort began to protest. "You are weak; you have lost much blood. Let me help you as I have helped your friend."

Cort swallowed the mouthful of stew, rich with meat and gravy, redolent with the aroma of herbs. "My friend?"

"Si, su amigo. He arrived the day after you did. Senor Herod." He grinned at Cort, his eyes blazing humor. "An unfortunate name, is it not?" He dipped the spoon, offered another mouthful.

"I reckon it is, for a Christian man. Herod's no Christian, though," said Cort, before he took the stew. He chewed, swallowed. "This is good. What is it?"

"Beef. One of our Sonoran caballeros butchered a steer this week. He made a donation to the mission." He dipped the spoon, offered more. Cort found his appetite returning with a vengeance.

"I'd appreciate a bite of that bread, padre. And a sip of water."

"We can do better than water, mi hijo." He brought a tin cup to his lips. "Wine. Well-watered, so it does not go to your head." He smiled. "It is communion wine; I grow the grapes and make it myself." He watched as Cort sipped experimentally. "Good?"

"Yes, good. Thanks." He took more of the stew and finished all the bread and wine. The priest sat the empty bowl and spoon down, and removed the napkin after wiping Cort's lips.

"Can I do anything else for you?" he asked.

Cort's cheeks flamed. "You have a chamber pot?"

The priest smiled. "Of course. Don't be ashamed, such things are a part of life. It is here, under the bed. Can you manage alone?"

'If it kills me,' thought Cort, cringing at the idea of needing help for so basic a function. Aloud, he said, "I'll manage. Thanks."

The old man stood. "Then I will leave you." He gathered up the dishes and turned to go.

"Just a minute, padre." He extended his hand. "My name is Cort."

As he set the plate and bowl back on the table, the priest smiled. "I am Diego Gonzales de Leon. You may call me Padre Diego...everyone does. Even the children."

Cort nodded. "Padre Diego, I'm much obliged to you for your help. Thank you."

Padre Diego patted his shoulder. "De nada, mi hijo. Rest now. I'll look in on you later."

The days passed slowly. A normally active Cort chafed at the restrictions of remaining bedfast, but Padre Diego was adamant. The leg wound was serious---the bullet had passed close to the artery. Cort was fortunate he had not bled to death. His amigo had fared no better---one of the bullets had passed through his lung. He suffered now from pneumonia, but was mending. It was only by the grace of God they were both still alive; and now they must convalesce slowly to regain their health, no matter how long it took. And Cort must stay away from Senor Herod, must not come in contact with the fever while he was in a weakened state himself.

In the days that followed, Padre Diego took to sitting with Cort for long spells, talking about the mission and his vocation, and the mysterious workings of God. He could see that the young man, though obviously not religious, had good in him. Cort never asked about his friend though Diego felt it proper to give him frequent reports on Herod's progress, and to these Cort listened in impassive silence. The padre did not like Senor Herod---there was a cold emptiness in his eyes that told Diego the man's soul was lost. He was among the damned, among those who did not wish for redemption, who had discarded God and all that was holy. Something told him that Cort did not like Herod either, though he did not say so.

It was afternoon, the time between the Angelus and Evensong. Padre Diego had come to pass the long siesta at Cort's bedside. The priest gazed fondly at his young convalescent. Though he did not like the evil Senor Herod, this one, this young man with the troubled soul, was a different story. There was a light in his eyes when he spoke of leaving, of returning to his woman, whom he said he wanted to marry. There was hope, the wish for a better life. The good padre held to a strong belief that Cort would eventually find his way to Christ. He spoke often of forgiveness, said it was there if one asked for it. Cort listened, thoughtful. Would God forgive him his murders, his dissolute and violent past? Would he bless him with peace, and grant him the one thing he wanted above all else---a life with Cynthia?

It was during this conversation that Herod, as if sensing something amiss, got up from his bed and made his way down the dimly lit corridor, following the sound of muted voices. He stood listening, just out of sight and leaning weakly against the wall as the priest's voice droned on and on, speaking of the glory of the kingdom of heaven, and grimaced darkly when his partner asked halting questions about the mysteries of faith. How did Padre Diego know that God was all-forgiving, all-loving? Would he accept someone like Cort into his flock, a man who had killed without blinking an eye or wasting the breath to say a prayer to send his victim on his way to God?

"God forgives all, mi hijo. All but those who turn their backs on him. You have only to ask."

"How do I ask, padre? What do I say to Him?"

Diego's eyes grew stern as he leaned forward to impress the import of his words. "Do you wish His forgiveness? Are you willing to make amends to Our Lord, and promise to sin no more? This is not a vow you can make lightly, Cort. You must mean what you say. God will know if it's not sincere."

Cort met his eyes steadily. "I mean it. I'm sick of this life, I'm sick of myself. I want better, I want something---good. A decent life. It seems to me I can't do it without getting right with God."

"Ah. Your heart is in the right place, then, mi hijo. I will hear your confession as soon as you are able to come to the church. You will do penance for your sins, Cort. And God will forgive you, will welcome you to His bosom with open arms." He paused as Cort's eyes flickered, came to rest on the doorway behind him. Diego turned to look over his shoulder. John Herod stood bracing himself on the jamb, his face a mask of rage.

"Get up. Get dressed. We're leaving here today."

Diego stood. "Senor, I must protest. Neither of you are ready to travel---it is dangerous in the extreme."

Herod replied, his voice scathing and cruel. "You're wasting your breath, priest. We leave in an hour. You want to help? Go and pack us some victuals---saddle our horses. I've had enough of lying here and listening to your fucking preachments."

"But..."

Herod produced the gun that had been hidden at his side, and aimed it at the padre's chest. "No arguments. Move."

Diego nodded. "As you say." He turned to Cort, who had sat up and begun to get out of bed. Raising his right hand, Padre Diego made the sign of the cross and rested his hand briefly on Cort's forehead. "Le absuelvo, en el nombre de Cristo nuestro señor. Va, y el pecado no más." With a look of disgust at Herod, he left them.

"I've had enough of your soul searching, you gutless bastard," snarled Herod, eyes hard on Cort's face. "It's a little late in the game for the leopard to change his spots. If a man is a killer, then that's what he is. And that's what you are, Cort. A killer. That's what I made you." He grinned ferally, sneered, "In my own image."

"Go to hell," said Cort.

Herod's face changed, a flat and cool expression dropped over it as if a curtain had fallen. "We both will, compadre. In good time," he said. "Get dressed. We're going back to Arizona."

The Present

Midday in the desert is no place for a man without shelter. Cort didn't even have a hat to give him the illusion of relief. And Ratsy had refused his requests for water.

As his horse plodded along the trail, Cort found that he didn't even have the strength to choke on the dust clouds the horses in front of his were kicking up.

He stared intently at his hands and found them gripped together, his fingers laced. Perfect, he thought; a prayer to give me strength. His mind searched for the Biblical passage that would comfort him and prepare him for what he knew was his coming ordeal at Herod's hands.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof, he recited the cherished psalm silently.

Refuge and strength.

It brought no solace to him, this psalm. Because the words 'refuge and strength' echoed through him. It concentrated his mind on the mission that had been his refuge. The padre who'd had such strength.

And it reminded him baldly of his own weakness and failure.

"Perdóneme, Padre, para mí han confiado un pecado..." A voice so low and soft that it was swallowed up in the gentle sound of his horse's hooves upon the trail's dust. He prayed as always ... for his soul, for Cynthia's soul, for the forgiveness he knew would never come in this life.

The Past

Cort limped into the courtyard behind Herod. His leg was burning, aching, and he wondered how he would manage to mount his mare. Padre Diego waited, the lead reins of both horses in one hand, a burlap sack in the other.

"I have filled your canteens, and the horses were fed on grain this morning. All should be well," he said.

"How kind. I'm in your debt," laughed Herod, taking the reins and the sack from the priest. He turned to Cort, waited until he caught up.

"Are you ready to say farewell to your confessor?"

Cort ignored him.

"Nothing to say?" Herod shrugged. "Fair enough. Then shoot him, and let's go."

Cort swiveled his head and stared aghast, as Herod's words drove home. Diego said nothing, just stood, waiting. The serene expression on his face never faltered.

"Go on," Herod urged, as if attempting to convince a child. "Shoot him. Call it my own brand of salvation." He laughed, said sarcastically, "I'm saving you, Cort. Making sure you stay what you are, what I raised you to be." His faced darkened into cruel malevolence and he spoke in a tone devoid of all emotion. "Shoot him. Now."

Cort shook his head. "No."

"Do it."

"I said no."

The gun was in his hand before Cort had time to react. Herod moved closer, held it at the base of Cort's skull. "If he's not dead by the time I count down from ten, you will be."

Cort stared at Padre Diego, his mind racing, screaming in protest. And before his eyes leapt the image of Cynthia, imploring him to return.

"Ten. Nine..."

Padre Diego lifted the crucifix and with it, made the sign of the cross over his chest.

"Eight. Seven..."

Cort's eyes were wild, panicked. His hand twitched at his gun belt, then froze.

"Six. Five..."

"I will forgive you, Cort. As will Our Lord," said the padre in a clear voice. "I have nothing to fear when I face Him. Do what you must."

A click as the hammer was drawn back on Herod's gun. "Four. Three..."

"God forgive me," whispered Cort, as he drew his Remington and aimed it at the priest's chest. "I'm sorry, Diego."

"Two. One..."

Cort fired, closed his eyes against the sight of his friend crumpling silently to the ground. He stood breathing hard, struggling against the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him.

Herod laughed cruelly. "Vaya con Dios, padre," he said.

The Present

Tears raced down his face but Cort didn't waste his strength on wiping them away. They were his penance for a sin so black it had damned him to spend eternity in Hell. He raised his face to the sun and absorbed the heat there as if training his body to prepare for those eternal fires.

There were times when he wondered if perhaps his God would someday absolve him of this mortal sin. If he could but prove himself worthy of the ultimate act on God's part. Could his God ever see any reason to be so forgiving to a sinner who'd murdered one of his priests? Murdered the padre, Cort thought, and only to save his sorry hide so that he could live long enough to return to the life he wanted with Cynthia.

Yet, even as he'd turned from Herod, aimed and pulled the trigger ... even in that defining moment, Cort had known his future was over.

He'd left John Herod there, the other man's insane grin a searing image. His wild laughter chasing him from the mission. Cort had ridden without stopping all the way back to Wootan Wells.

Back to Cynthia's arms. To the refuge he had thought he would find.

The Past

He'd come into town late at night. He never even bothered with doing much more than tying his lathered horse's reins around a small tree near his destination. Still wearing the stink of the road and the marks of his ordeal, he'd nearly run to the Pierce home. For long minutes, he'd stood transfixed in the back yard, peering at her darkened window. Absorbing the way it felt to be so close to her again.

The third pebble he'd launched at her window finally brought her to the wavy glass pane. She must have known she'd see him down there before she even reached the window. He saw her wave at him and then moments later, she came racing out of the back door and into his arms.

She didn't even mind how badly he looked and smelled. All that had mattered to her was that he was there again. Alive. Holding her. Touching her face. Growing hard against her as he kissed her, his tongue searching her mouth as if there was an answer there he might find if he looked hard enough.

"Lilacs," he breathed into her ear. "It's what I've missed all these weeks. The smell of lilacs on your skin."

"I've missed so many things about you, my love." Her cool hands cupped his face and her eyes were wide with wonder. "I'm so glad to have you with me again. I had begun to despair of seeing you again. Tell me what's happened. I expected you weeks ago."

"Not yet. Not now. Now I just...need you so much. Can you understand, Cyn? I need you," he said, his voice breaking, begging her with his eyes.

"Where?" she whispered, the strong woman he adored before him.

Minutes later, he was pulling her up before him on the saddle and the exhausted horse was being asked to make one more trip. At Blackwater Creek, Cort set the mare free to graze and drink from the cool stream.

As soon as he got down from the saddle, his fingers were eagerly seeking entry to Cynthia's nightgown. When he had her naked before him, he stepped back and looked at her body. Bathed in moonlight, glowing in the reflection of the stars above them it seemed to Cort she shone. Her nipples were drawn up in eager anticipation of his body.

Neither of them moved. For Cort, who had dreamed this moment a thousand times in his head over the weeks since he had seen her, the reality was too awesome to bear.

Whatever he had done, he had done it for her, had done it so that he could stand before her and give himself and everything he was to her forever. And now the moment was here, he could not even move a muscle. He was overwhelmed by her beauty, struck dumb by her goodness and humbled that a man like him could dare to look upon her, never mind seek to possess her. His filthy unwashed body and his even blacker shriveled soul seemed to stand out in terrible relief against the bright shining star of his beautiful girl.

Cynthia stared at him and wondered at the trials he must have suffered. He was dusty, beaten down and weary; had a haunted look in his eyes that spoke of both desire and despair. There was something different about him. It was as if he had lost his innocence and had discovered something that had shattered his world. For he had been an innocent- she had always known that. However formidable he was as a gun slinging fast draw, a hard-living, whoring outlaw, there had been a sweet innocence at his core that she had recognized from their earliest time. Somehow, his life had never stripped that from him. But tonight she couldn't see it. It was no longer there.

Her hand reached out to touch his face; he groaned low and rubbed his rough unshaven cheek on her palm. It seemed as if he did not dare to touch her, so she took his hand and raised it to cup her naked breast. His fingers softly caressed her as if they had never felt her flesh before; and at last, the light returned to his eyes.

"Cort...love me...I have longed for your touch..."

His head sank down on to her shoulder as he pulled her against his body. His coarse jacket scratched her skin and the leather and metal of his gun belt bruised her tender belly but the brutal pressure made her body cry out all the more for him. His hands moved down, slowly, almost delicately, like a blind man tracing the pattern of a face he cannot see. She thought she heard him sob, she wondered if the wetness she could feel on her cheek was tears.

In a wild burst of frenzy, she began to tear at his buttons and his belt, throwing each item aside and panting in her need for him. He seemed almost passive, breathing heavily but strangely subdued, watching her and holding out his arms as if in supplication. Naked now, he stood before her and for an instant she had a vision of a tortured soul, and then she saw the marks of his wounds, still scabbed and raw. He looked like Christ, naked on a cross.

"Cort? What happened?" she gasped, and her strangled cry seemed to wake him from his state.

"Got shot up. It went wrong...Cyn...Sweet Lord, I want you...." He grabbed her, ignoring the pain that shot through his leg and shoulder, and they fell to the grass, lips locked, bodies entwined. Cynthia could taste his bitter mouth, smell stale sweat, unwashed skin and the odor of infected wounds. The rough texture of his bristles was harsh on her skin, but these sensations seemed erotic and aroused her to an even wilder passion. Her head swam with his overpowering virility and her female urge to rut with him on the ground like an untamed beast.

She wailed as he entered her, rough in his need, even hurting her, although he did not mean to. Yet the pain was like pleasure to them both. Her body swallowed him whole and gripped him hard; her legs wrapped around his buttocks and forced him deeper within her. She drove herself against him as hard as he took her. They were mad for each other, half insane, crying and insensible, both trying to bury deep an awful sense that something was changing and could never be the same again.

Under the silvery moon the two lovers took their elemental passion and implanted it deep within the other. Their moans and unfinished utterances rang out over the silent water and their pale bodies seemed to be a writhing mass of primal nature until Cort thrust her back and came, his body wracked with effort and release, trembling as it bled its gift into her weeping haven. Words failed them. They held each other and locked eyes as their bodies returned them to the earth.

It is accomplished. And hanging down his head, he commended his spirit. Those final words seemed to burn in Cort's brain.

They lay together on the wet grass. Cort listened as Cynthia slept. Restless, he rose and walked into the creek, taking a sharp breath at the coolness of the water. Dipping beneath the surface, he shoved his hands through his hair and worked out some of the trail's dirt. Breaking back into the night's air, he worked his hands over the grime on his body. He looked at his hands. What was that stain that didn't want to come off?

Blood? In horror, he looked harder and groaned at what he was afraid he saw there. Was it the priest's blood that refused to wash away?

He was crying and did not realize it. Blinded by tears, he stumbled from the creek and collapsed on the bank. When he felt Cynthia's arms around him, he rose to his knees and clung to her so tightly she could barely breathe.

"What is it, my love? Please tell me," she whispered to him, wondering what had affected him so strongly.

He sobbed against her pure skin until he was spent. But he couldn't talk. His mouth could not seem to form the words.

Cynthia cradled him in her lap and smoothed his hair back from the beloved face. Her eyes searched his. "Tell me," she said, her voice firm. "I'm strong enough to know. I'll help you, Cort. I'll always stand by you."

"Not this," he whispered, his strong voice so hoarse that it sounded painful. "Cyn, I have done so many bad things in my life. But never anything this bad."

"Tell me. Now."

And somehow he found words. He told her about the robbery, explained the wounds that were almost healed. Told her the money was still safe in his saddlebags, the money for their future. And through it all, she listened silently, her fingers gentle on his cheek. Encouraged, he went on, told her of the mission and Padre Diego, and how Herod had forced him. He told her of the last moment of the priest's life, how he had pulled the trigger to save himself and robbed the world of a holy man. And then, her hands stilled and grew cold against his heated face. He raised his eyes. Her mouth was a rigid line, her eyes horror-filled.

He faltered, his words died in his throat. She shoved him from her lap, climbed slowly to her feet and stumbled away. He watched as she doubled over and vomited into the grass. When she fell to her knees, he rushed to her, his arms wrapping around her waist to help her up.

Cynthia pushed him away. She rose to numb feet, turned to him and slapped him as hard as she could. "God damn your soul, Cort. God damn your soul to Hell for what you have done," she spat.

Cort backed away. His heart felt like it had just shrunken to nothing inside his heaving chest.

"How could you think you could come back to me now? After what you have done? There are many things I could forgive you for...so much I've already forgiven you, Cort. But not this. Never this..." She was crying by then. Sobbing, choking on her words. "Why did you make love to me? You make me feel filthy. To have been taken by a man who murdered a priest? There isn't soap strong enough to erase the filth of your seed and the mark of your hands on me."

Cort wished he could die. He had known she'd be shocked and upset. But he had thought she would want to help him, that she loved him so much she'd forgive him. Somehow, he had thought that telling her the truth, in all its unvarnished entirety, would be something that would bring them closer.

"Cynthia, please. Listen to me, honey. This doesn't have to change anything for us. No one ever has to know. I have the money and we can take off tonight. No one will ever find us. There were no witnesses other than John and ..."

She backed away from him, her eyes wide with shock. "Doesn't have to change anything? No one else has to know? My Lord, Cort. I know. You know. God knows. Even if we are the only ones who know, it changes everything. Everything. The man I loved is dead to me. Dead!"

He reached for her but she backed away from him, gathered her nightgown and robe and dressed quickly. Her feet carried her resolutely down the road back to town. She wanted only to get away from him. To never see him again, never be reminded that the man she'd hung her hopes on had damned their love as surely as he'd damned his soul.

In the saddle a second after he'd dressed, Cort took off after her. He plucked her from the road but she was so stiff against him that he knew nothing he could say in that moment would matter to her.

At her home, she slid from his horse before he could help her down. Cort hopped to the ground and grabbed her hand, pulling her back.

"You know nothing of the Bible, do you, Cort?" she asked, her voice cold and devoid of inflection. "You have been a heathen your entire life. Perhaps you honestly don't realize the enormity of your sin."

His eyes dropped to the ground. "The padre taught me of the Bible, Cyn. He taught me of a loving God who will always forgive his children their sins."

"Then he didn't teach you well, Cort. For there are some things God will not forgive. And God will have His retribution, in this life or the next. Whatever you sow, so shall you reap, Cort. God will see to it that you pay for what you have done," she told him. "And when he does, you just remember who taught you this verse from the Bible: He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity. He that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword. Here is the patience and the faith of the saints."

He looked up into her eyes and understood then, and his heart shattered. She would never forgive him. She no longer loved him.

It was a moment he remembered with a clarity that still had the power to destroy any peace of mind he might find, no matter the years that passed between that day and this.

With a gasp, Cort came back aware of his surroundings. Through dull eyes, he noted night was settling upon them.

"And why should she have forgiven me?" he thought. "Even God will not. She was right when she said that someday He would make me pay for what I did."

It was her damnation of him that had sent him from Wootan Wells with a broken heart and a bitter spirit. But six months later, after trying to drown her memory inside countless whiskey bottles, he'd found himself inside a hard-scrabble church in east Texas. The priest found him prostrate in front of the altar. He'd heard his confession but he'd been unable to give him the solace of absolution. Still, he'd offered Cort a place to stay and spent long hours with him discussing Christ's teachings and promises. And when Cort had left a month later, the priest let him take his Bible with him. His parting blessing was a prayer that Cort would find peace in his life.

Days later, he made his decision. The only thing he could do was to try to complete the mission of the padre he'd killed; the only way he could live his life was to give it as an offering to a God, a God who'd become a source of peace for him the more he studied His words. He found his answers there; he found his new calling.

And Cort had found peace of sorts; he'd been happy in the work at the mission he'd started for orphans. Sometimes weeks would go by without his mind being tortured by memories of the blood on his hands. But always, in the early spring, the lilac shrub he'd planted bloomed in the courtyard and its scent brought Cynthia back to him. And he'd become silent then, and withdrawn, and even prayer and atonement brought him no solace.

And then his old compadres had come into his mission, his shelter, his place of refuge. They had desecrated it; they had dragged him away and were forcing him to face his past again.

"But I won't be the only one facing that past; I won't be the only one paying for my sins," he thought grimly. Ratsy chose that moment to glance back at him. Cort's mouth had formed into a smile that conveyed nothing of warmth, everything of menace. And Ratsy shivered, remembering what his old pardner was capable of.

From the saddle, Cort watched the town of Redemption take shape, shadows of buildings outlined in the wavering light of bonfires. So this was where Herod had made his new headquarters, he thought. It was his town, the fulfillment of a dream for his mentor. Herod had always spoken of such a set up - taking over a town and running it the way he wanted. The scene was bizarre; bonfires everywhere, masks and crudely fabricated skeletons dangled and leered. His confused mind took it all in and then he remembered. November first. The Day of the Dead. This was a celebration, religious in nature; though it had been bastardized by the thugs and lawless in town.

What kind of madness has driven John Herod to actually go through with this? Cort wondered, and studied the people who watched them coming down the main road. Some were looking at them calculatingly, sizing them up. Others, obviously townsfolk, gazed with timid, frightened eyes, he noted. These people were living in hell: he knew who'd created that hell for them.

"Lord, please deliver these poor souls from their trials," he prayed, his lips barely moving and his eyes sliding shut. "May they be sheltered in Your love and in Your strength. May they find a way. Keep them safe, Lord. Guárdelos caja fuerte, Dios."

When he looked up again, he found himself studying the lay of the town from a different perspective. From long habit, his narrowed, experienced eyes searched for points of weakness, for strategic strongholds. His attention was diverted when Ratsy drew the motley group of Herod's men to a halt outside a large saloon. Just before he was dragged down from his saddle, Cort took note of the warm amber glow of lights inside the large windows. It seemed to almost shimmer off the glossy wooden bar and stairs inside, would almost have seemed warm and welcoming if he hadn't known better. There were lots of people inside, he noted grimly. And John Herod would be there too, sitting in a place of prominence, basking in the cowering obeisance of those who feared him.

Cort waited for the customary yank on his ropes. He was ready for it, would sooner let his soul be damned than give Herod the joy of seeing him beaten or cowed. His head up but begging the Lord to forgive him this show of base pride, Cort smoothed down his jacket as best he could. He knew he presented a pitiful image---himself and his clothing covered in the dirt and dust of days on the trail, bruised and bleeding from his ill-treatment, bearing marks of the times he'd been dragged or whipped. But he did his best with what he had.

I'll wear dignity as my armor against this son of Satan, he thought. I may be dirty, but I am not defeated. I will never be defeated by a soulless thug like John Herod.

Just as they reached the swinging doors at the saloon's entrance, Cort heard laughter and men's loud bragging. And then Ratsy's boot heaved into his ass. Helpless to stop his forward progress, Cort hurtled through the doors and rolled hard onto the wooden floor until he was brought up short against a piano. He waited a moment, glancing about with wary eyes. With cat-like grace, he rose slowly to his knees. Lifting his head, every sense on high alert, blood pounding like a drum in his veins, he swiftly took in the scene.

His eyes swept over the motley crowd of gunslingers and whores, and then stopped, hardened.

John Herod, he thought, his lips tightening at the sight of the familiar, grinning face. You will pay for your sins. And you will never own my soul again.

Translations:
Madre de Dios, perdone a este criado pobre:	Mother of God, forgive this poor servant.
Guárdelos caja fuerte, Dios:	Keep them safe, God.
Fácil:	easy
Bueno:	good
Mi hijo:	my son
Perdóneme, Padre, para mí han confiado un pecado:	Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
Le absuelvo, en el nombre de Cristo nuestro señor. Va, y el pecado no más.:	I absolve you in the name of Christ our lord. Go, and sin no more.